


deflect, reflect

by izadreamer



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hostage Situations, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parallels, Redemption, accidental redemption arc, probably AU, so many parallels, somewhat character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 05:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izadreamer/pseuds/izadreamer
Summary: In another world, a glitch in Hanoi’s program sends Aoi Zaizen into a coma—  and Blue Angel awakens in the heart of Hanoi, unable to log out of the database, a prisoner of the ones who corrupted her in the first place.





	deflect, reflect

**Author's Note:**

> I love redemption arcs. I love giving redemption arcs to characters who do not want a redemption arc. This is pretty much a challenge for me to give Revolver-- who, so far, seems utterly unrepentant of his actions-- a chance at redemption, all while keeping him in-character. 
> 
> This story explores the long-term effects of the change mentioned in the summary, but considering today's recent episode, there are few others I didn't really mention, so:
> 
> [SPOILERS] 
> 
> The Blue Angel who challenges Playmaker to duel is the real one, during which Revolver appears and episode 9/10 happen. Akira and Ema do not capture Playmaker. Revolver faces Playmaker earlier than intended. Akira does not out himself to Playmaker, so therefore Revolver— and Hanoi by extension— do not know Blue Angel’s real identity as of yet.
> 
> [END SPOILERS]
> 
> You don't need to have watched today's episode to know what's going on--its just a head's up. This story is unbetaed, so if you spy any spelling issues, let me know and I'll fix them. 
> 
> With that said-- enjoy!

 

The aftermath of the Blue Angel incident is unexpected, but not without its uses. Revolver had intended to drag her over to their side. He had not intended to trap her in Link VRAINS.

Still—despite how hard she fought, despite the damage she has inflicted on herself, she is still useful. Still useable. She pushed Playmaker to the brink of defeat even without summoning the card they locked onto her heart, and skill like that is not to be wasted: it is to be used.

The other Knights are uneasy around her. The card has overtaken her, but her screams had echoed throughout all of Link VRAINS. Revolver has used this trick on many people, but none have reacted as violently as she.

Its for this reason he takes charge of the situation. He does his duty—watches Link VRAINS for any sight of that damn Playmaker or Ignis, plans the long game. But he watches her, too—her avatar, slumped and unconscious. Her mind cannot escape back to the real world, but whoever Blue Angel is, she is somewhere even deeper than virtual reality, a realm Revolver can only guess at.

He waits. She will wake up eventually, he knows. All the others did. He has use for her yet.

When her eyes finally open, he will be there to greet her.

.

Specter is displeased by the turn of events. He doesn’t dare say so to Revolver’s face, of course, but it's obvious. He thought Blue Angel would be a one-time pawn. He did not think Revolver may have made other plans, but that is his mistake.

“She will be useful,” Revolver snaps, after Specter’s silence grows too annoying to bear. He dislikes being questioned; dislikes Specter’s silent judgement most of all. “She is someone who can drive Playmaker into a corner. He is already searching for a way to save her. He cares. That is a weakness we must exploit.”

It’s not like Playmaker has given them much else to use against him, after all. Months, the man has been fighting them, and he’s given almost nothing away. It’s maddening.

“And when she wakes up?” Specter asks. His voice is sour. “We cannot keep her under forever. All programs, all brainwashing has its limits.”

Acceptable losses, Revolver thinks, but he knows better than to say that aloud. “Then we reapply it, as many times as we need.”

“And when she is not under?”

“Then we watch her.”

“She will be _here_ , at the heart of our base, surrounded by our secrets, and you think—”

Revolver slams his hand against the console. Specter goes silent.

“I think,” Revolver says, softly, dangerously, “that we have in our hands a pawn that could bring Playmaker to his knees. I think we would be fools not to use her. But _please_ , tell me, Specter— What do _you_ think?”

Specter doesn’t answer. Revolver smiles.

“We will use her until she breaks, and then we will discard her, and anything she may have learned will be lost with the rest of her. Your concerns are noted and dismissed. Leave me.”

This time, Specter doesn’t dare argue.

.

Blue Angel wakes up two days later. When she first sees him, she flinches, a full-body shudder. She saw him, that split second before the brainwashing took hold, and the memory is a powerful one. She knows who he is.

“Hanoi,” she says, less a question and more a statement. Her voice is rough, scratchy. All that screaming has taken its toll.

Revolver smiles back. It is a thin, bladed smile—uncomforting, cold, sharp as any blade. There is no kindness. No pity.

“Yes.”

“Hanoi,” Blue Angel repeats. “You… that card…” Her voice trails off. Her eyes are wide, her face pale in the wash-out light of the monitors. Her signature smile is nowhere in sight.

His smile, in contrast, grows. “Yes.”

“You… you _used_ me?”

“You are an effective weapon against Playmaker,” he tells her, amused by the way her hands tremble. “Your skill… and the guilt he will feel for being the reason we found you in the first place.”

A full shudder runs through her. Her hands curl into shaking fists. Her head is bowed, her face shadowed. He cannot see her eyes, but her hitching breaths give her away.

She falls apart so easily, it's almost pathetic.

“Do you understand your position?”

She sucks in a slow, shaky breath. She doesn’t look up. Revolver looks down at her trembling form, and wants to sneer.

“You are my pawn,” he tells her, sharp, barbed. Some small part of him wants to goad her into anger, is irritated by her quiet. Where is her spirit? Her fire? Pawns are no use if they break too quickly. “You are Hanoi’s Angel.”

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes are rimmed in red, but her face is smooth, as still as the surface of a lake. Her stare fixes on him, and for the first time he can see defiance in the set of her shoulders, in her unblinking blue eyes.

He is not sure why it pleases him.

“Not for long,” Blue Angel says, and though her voice is still ruined from her own screaming, it is steady.

.

She fights for them, because despite her words the corrupted card still holds her hostage. She fights, and with each battle Playmaker’s face grows more guarded, more drawn. The guilt in his eyes is almost palatable. His search for the program that will save her grows more desperate by the day.

After that first disastrous duel, Playmaker does not seek out to duel Revolver again. Their tie is still unbroken. Playmaker cannot afford to lose, and so he avoids the possibility entirely. It’s frustrating, but it’s only a matter of time before they clash again. Revolver can be patient.

In that regard, Blue Angel is a useful pawn. Yet, this doesn’t change the fact she is also a difficult one. During duels they are forced to control her completely, lest she give the game away—but her fury and struggles are ceaseless. After the duels they are forced to draw her back to the base and wear off the brainwashing, because if they did not then she would fight herself into a coma.

Specter thinks the trouble is not worth it. He says as much, each time Blue Angel’s struggles lead to her gasping and teary-eyed, the Knights own resources drawn from having to apply the technique over and over. “Let her fall,” Specter says, his usual silence for once overridden. “Let her sleep forever, if that’s what she wants. We can always find a new one.”

They could.

Revolver refuses anyway.

.

It is not pity that stays Revolver’s hand. It is the fact that if he were to willingly let Blue Angel fight herself to death, into a coma, then he would have done to her what that bastard AI did to his father.

Revolver is many things, but he refuses to follow that road. He cannot put his father’s trust in him in jeopardy. He cannot do what another did. Maybe that makes him weak, to be so unwilling to inflict his own wounds onto another, but Revolver doesn’t care.

He will not doubt himself. He will not put his own well-being in jeopardy, not even for this godforsaken organization. If he cannot think, then he cannot achieve his father’s dream, and _that_. That is unacceptable.

Failure is not an option.

.

Blue Angel is too dangerous to let roam or give free rein of Hanoi’s base. For all that Revolver shut down Specter’s concerns, that doesn’t mean they’re not valid. She is their pawn, but she didn’t choose to be—and that, unfortunately, makes her a risk.

Its for this reason that when she is not under their will and dueling Playmaker for their gains, Revolver keeps her close by in the main central room. She gets a small, circular prison of see-through light of her own. She can barely move, but then, that’s the point.

There, she sees what he sees. She watches Playmaker hunt desperately for a way to save her. She sees recordings of her own controlled state. She watches, and Revolver thinks perhaps the situation is not unlike killing two birds with one stone. She is close by where he can keep an eye on her, and he is breaking her spirit at the same time.

If she expects to glean useful information, she will be disappointed. The important files, the battle plans, and  anything of value are in other rooms. Despite this, she still watches. Her eyes never close. This is a realm that requires neither food nor sleep, and this means her defiance is tireless.

There is nothing she can learn that will help her. There is nothing here she can use.

Still. The longer this goes on, the more sure Revolver becomes: of all the people they could have picked to face Playmaker that day, of all the people to drag under their fold—choosing Blue Angel was a mistake.

.

Revolver cannot afford to spend too much time in the real world these days, not with all these new forces closing in. It's the first time it's happened for a long time. In five years, no threat has come as close to succeeding as Playmaker.

The few times he opens his own eyes, his hands are trembling, his skin stretched and sallow looking. Hunger gnaws at him. He’s not eating enough. He’s not sleeping enough.

He’s withering, but it could be worse. His body may be failing him, but his will is not, and his will is all he needs. Medicine can keep him going for now. After this is all over, he’ll fix himself. Only after this is over.

He sits by his father’s side, when he can. The man’s eyes never open. He doesn’t speak. Five years have passed since Revolver last saw his face concealed by machinery.

He wonders what his father would have done. About Ignis. About Playmaker. About Blue Angel. Would he have won that first battle? Would he have kept Blue Angel as a pawn, or would he cut her off, cast her into a never-ending sleep? Would he have used her at all?

Revolver doesn’t know. It has been so long.

He wonders if his father would be proud.

.

Sometimes Blue Angel speaks. At first she shouts at him, curses him out, and once, even pleads to be freed. Those, he does not respond to.

But as days turn to weeks her voice dips lower, her anger fading in favor of exhaustion. In turn, her accusations become observations—little, unnecessary things. “He looks tense.” “That bird nearly hit the storm.” “Does my hair really look like that?” And so on.

Eventually, Revolver finds himself responding. Blue Angel does not respect him and that is grating, but also refreshing. She says things no one else has dared say to his face for five years. It’s annoying. It’s also the most entertainment Revolver has in this dull place, even if the entertainment is being provided by a mouthy, weepy prisoner.

Later, he will think—he should have known better.

He knows how Blue Angel fights. He watch that first duel himself. So why didn’t occur to him, that perhaps this was just how she was? Like a needle between his teeth, a sharp thorn in his side.

Bits of conversations, pieces of their back-and-forth arguments. Offhand comments that he says but does not remember. She’s worn away at him, bit by bit, and from the pieces she’s discovered the one secret he’s tried to hide for five lonely years.

“Ah,” she says one day, into the usual silence that surrounds them. She draws the word out long and slow, as if considering it, tasting it and the implications behind it, and something about that makes his blood run cold.

“You weren’t the first, were you?”

Choosing Blue Angel was a mistake.

.

She knows too much. She knows too much even as she knows nothing concrete, and it burns. He did not expect this. He did not see this coming. She has blindsided him, the skill they chose her for turned against her captors.

She’s more than a liability now. She’s a risk.

As if to taunt him, Specter grows more vocal in his reservations about keeping her chained to Hanoi. She doesn’t fight against the brainwashing as desperately as she used too, but she is still fighting. One day, they won’t be fast enough, and Blue Angel won’t ever wake up again. Too many see that as a better option.

All of them know they cannot let her go.

His own weakness needles him. He was not the first. She knows this. To let her slip away, to fall into the abyss, to never awaken—it is the cleanest end. The easiest way of fixing all his problems. And yet.

He will, one day. Revolver can and will talk himself into it, if he must. But he still has time. Time to choose. Time to fight. Time to find another way.

If he cannot hide her away in the shadows, the he will break her mind—either way, he must end the threat she poses before become too great for any of them to contain.

Soon.

For now, he has time.

.

The good news: there are many paths Blue Angel’s fate may take. Waking up of her own accord is not one of them.

Somewhere in the real world, there is someone lying weak and unresponsive on a hospital bed. There are many people like that—those who entered Link VRAINS only to encounter fire and death, or others who have undergone the same brainwashing now holding Blue Angel hostage. Whoever Blue Angel is in the real world, they will not wake up.

Revolver suspects, although he has no way of knowing for sure, that unless a miracle occurs, Blue Angel may never wake up, no matter what Playmaker does. She fought against the brainwashing—as most do—but the trouble is thus: she fought so hard she broke her own wings.

There is a certain irony in that, Revolver thinks. If she had not struggled so valiantly, then perhaps she could have been saved. But she had struggled, and her wings had been ripped away, and now she won’t ever achieve whatever it was that made her fight so hard.

He wouldn’t ever know it by looking at her though. Even now, with her wings broken and freedom stolen, trapped in the database, she doesn’t act like a true prisoner. She’s gone quiet, but the fire in her eyes burns brighter than ever. There’s resolve there, a resolve that even defeat cannot shake. Not even despair.

Blue Angel is frightening, in her own way. Her wide, staring eyes, unfaltering and unblinking, taking in every detail. Her showman smile. Her intellect, hidden behind a mask until the pieces come together to form a weapon. Even when she’s resting, she’s thinking, planning, fighting. Revolver can’t tell if this is her way of resisting, or if this is just who she is.

He gets the feeling that she can’t afford to lose, either.

.

Time goes on. A week, two weeks—a month.

Playmaker is closing in.

He’s close, but not close enough that Revolver is worried. Still. He is running out of time.

Infuriatingly enough, Blue Angel notices. Her eyes follow his every movement as he paces around the room, the screens above them playing out Playmaker’s exploits. The few times he looks back, the bright light of the screen plays across her face, shadows her mouth and edges her eyes. It is an unsettling effect.

Today of all days, she is pointedly silent. She is aware of her role here, of her position. She’s aware that the secret she’s discovered can ruin him forever.

Ever since the day she outed him, she has not spoken another word.

Revolver doesn’t deal well with silence. He despises all the unsaid things that people expect him to understand anyway, hates how they make him ask instead of just outright telling him. So much time, wasted on their silence—  it drives him up the wall.

Her quiet is no different. It jabs at him, an irritation swiftly growing into a rage. When he can no longer stand it, when he turns to face her fully, she is already staring back, as if she knew what he would do all along.

There is a smile on her drawn face, a thin smile, a bladed one. The fear is still there, but well hidden. He almost despises her for it.

“He will not find you,” Revolver tells her, furious at her silence, at her smile. He wants, suddenly and irrationally, to make her lose it. He wants to see the fear on her face, in her eyes, where she cannot hide it. “You will never be free from this blasted place. You have already lost. You cannot win.”

Blue Angel’s smile stretches, bares. It’s a shadow of her showman smile, a front, a mask. There is fear in that smile. But there is anger, too, as vicious and as genuine as his own, and for a moment it startles him.

“I will not lose,” she tells him. It sounds less like a threat and more like a promise, and that makes it all the more chilling.

He laughs at her, but the sound is hollow.

.

Later, when he looks back, he will understand. It is not that he is afraid of her. It is not her defiance that stayed his hand. It is not even his own trauma.

The truth is: Revolver looks at her and realizes that something in her reminds him of himself.

.

Playmaker storms the base.

His attack is swift, merciless, and near untraceable. Somewhere where Revolver was not looking, he found a loophole. He found an _in._

Revolver scrambles to defend. He throws up every firewall he can think of, activates every defense they have. The virus Playmaker inflicts on their systems devours everything in its path, slowing with every defense—but not stopping. It is a dark cloud, an acidic rain, a tangible darkness that eats and eats and eats.

He must have based it off Ignis, and the sheer insult is enough to leave Revolver shaking.

He stalls the virus, but not soon enough to corner Playmaker. The duelist escapes, his goal achieved. Revolver had not seen hide nor hair of him. Playmaker has _ignored_ him.

What he has done is far more devastating than a final duel. He’s stolen information that puts thousands of operations at risk. He’s destroyed files they have no hope of retrieving.

Worst of all—

Sometime during the attack, Playmaker fought Blue Angel. Details unknown, the result the same: Blue Angel disappears from the database.

Somewhere out there, a girl is waking up.

Revolver’s father still sleeps.

.

He’s angry. Angry at Blue Angel for awakening where his own father did not, at himself for letting their greatest bargaining chip slip away, at Playmaker for setting up the escape route allowing her to do so. At Specter—who says, “We can find another,” as if Blue Angel wasn’t the strongest they found, as if her loss is nothing more than an inconvenience.

She knows. She knows too much. She’s a trickster, and tricksters are more dangerous than anyone expects. No one ever sees them coming until it's too late.

Like her cards, her combo—she’s ruthless, methodical. She whittled away at him like her 200 points combo whittles away life, until that minor annoyance turns into the dealing hand of death. It is not her monsters that they should watch. It’s her. It’s the winning hand she sets up the moment she takes to the stage.

She knows too much. Now, she has the freedom to use it.

Revolver is out of time.

.

One failure leads to another. Things only get worse.

The Knights no longer trust him. Oh, they dare not say it to his face, of course, but it's obvious if you know how to look, and Revolver is looking. Conversations end when he enters the room. The Knights won’t meet his eyes. When he gives orders, they hesitate. The respect that used to color their voices is dulled, dying, dead.

He’s spent years of building leadership, order, structure. Five years trying to uphold his father’s legacy, keeping that deadly secret. Five years of work down the drain, all because one unknown boy decided to save a friend.

Revolver tries to salvage the situation. He bites back his own growing fury, forces himself to keep his head, to present himself as in control. His father would not have lost his temper. His father would have been cold, calculating, vicious in his counterattack. But Revolver has already waited too long to strike. Another mistake.

He swallows down the rage. He works. He recovers lost files, blasts his way through SOL Technology firewalls—  weakened from the loss of the Security Head. He corners any new threat and takes it off the map. He tries to recover.

No matter what Revolver does, it isn’t enough. Playmaker is still out there. Blue Angel is free. These facts cannot be changed.

The whispers—the doubt—remain.

He swallows back the anger, but it stays there, festering, like bile in the back of his throat.

.

When Revolver is not trying to keep control of his own organization, he closes in on Playmaker. The situation has changed. Now, it’s not just a matter of pride. It’s personal. It was Playmaker’s attack that brought Revolver to his knees, his plan that destroyed any trust the Knights had in their leader. He has undermined all the work Revolver has done in the past five years.

Revolver will make sure he bleeds for it.

It is not hard to find the duelist—Playmaker is not hiding. He is moving, though, moving too quickly to track. He is searching for new leads. New attackers.

There’s a new enemy on the horizon, rising up where the Knights have faltered. Unnamed, and unknown. Playmaker is moving on. Whatever he wanted from the Knights, he found it—and now he has lost all interest.

This does not stop him from defeating any Knight of Hanoi that crosses his path. Playmaker has deemed them unworthy of his time, but he is doing it gracelessly. The insult is merely fuel for the fire.

Revolver gathers rumors with fever. He went in blind once, and it cost him. This time, he will be prepared. He will know everything he can. Any weakness he can exploit. Playmaker will come to regret his dismissal of Hanoi’s power.

The rumors are shifty, uncertain, but they all share a common thread. Playmaker is no longer working alone. He is working with the Ignis. He is working with Go Onizuka. He is working with a woman who glides through the database like a ghost. Playmaker has people to help him, now, but all that means is that Playmaker has people to lose.

Of Blue Angel, there is nothing. But it is only a matter of time.

Revolver sits by the bed and watches his father’s face, and wonders if he would be disappointed.

.

“Master Revolver. If I may speak?”

Revolver keeps his head bowed. He’s leaning over a monitor, his eyes closed, his fingers curling over the edges of the control pad. Even shut, he can see the scene that plays out on the screen. Playmaker, battling Hanoi. Playmaker, winning. Playmaker, Playmaker, Playmaker.

He found weaknesses. He has not found a way to find Playmaker himself.

“Specter. Do not try my patience.”

A pause.

“Forgive me. I have found something, and I believe… you will want to hear this.”

His fingers are curling tight around the edges. His shoulders are stiff and aching. His head pounds behind his eyelids, a headache that’s lasted for days. His mouth is dry.

“Will I?”

It’s almost a challenge.

Specter sighs. It's so soft, he barely hears it—but he does. Exhaustion, annoyance. As if Revolver is nothing more than a temperamental child he cannot be rid of.

His fingers are curling, tightening, gripping the metal control pad tight. The press of metal is cool beneath his gloves. The edge is digging into the crease of his fingers.

“We have found a way to track Playmaker, Master Revolver. We have found a way for you to retake the Ignis. If you wish.”

Revolver opens his eyes.

.

He sends out a Knight to attack the VRAINS server where Playmaker is currently frequenting. The duel winds are already roaring. Revolver lingers by the stream, and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Playmaker catches the man almost immediately. The duel is swift, and defeat sudden. The underling never stood a chance.

Playmaker alights atop one of the higher buildings, watching the man’s avatar fade from view. The city he’s chosen is one of eternal night, lit only by floating lanterns, and the dim glow catches in his eyes and the gleam of his teeth as he talks. His mouth is moving, voice too soft to hear, words directed at the AI strapped to his wrist. He makes to log out.

Revolver steps out of the shadows. Playmaker pauses.

Between them, the winds begin to roar again, their lights blinding in the dark as its snakes it way through the air. It looks less like a wind and more like a river of glass shards. It’s shining colors cast Playmaker’s impassive face in shadow, highlights the tension around his eyes and the angry furrow of his brow.

Revolver smiles. It is not a nice smile. It is brittle, cold. It is furious, and hateful, and resentful. Every single petty emotion that Revolver has swallowed back these past two weeks, brought out to play.

“Playmaker,” Revolver says. His hands are fists by his side. His limbs are trembling with the force of his emotion. He practically spits the word.

Playmaker sets his deck into the disk. His eyes never stray from Revolver’s face. “Revolver. Leader of the Knights of Hanoi.”

Revolver’s smile stretches, lips peeling away from his teeth. “Yes.”

Playmaker says nothing else. But on his wrist, the duel disk lights—and Revolver knows his challenge has been accepted.

He throws himself into the duel with all the fury trapped in his bones. The winds drag them across the sky. This is the duel he has been waiting for. This is the duel he cannot afford to lose—not just for his father’s dream. For himself, too. This time, it's personal.

Failure has never been an option.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I will hopefully update each week. Stay tuned. If you have any questions or just want to talk, hmu at http://izaswritings.tumblr.com
> 
> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
